


Thoughts that Breathe, and Words that Burn

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Humor, I swear that makes sense, It's a joplittle fic but Jopson and Little aren't actually in it much, M/M, One Shot, The Terror lieutenants being bros, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18543994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: John didn't know much about poetry--if this abysmal collection of words on page could be considered such--he, generally speaking, kept to scripture and non-fiction. There, he found far less flowery language for him to undoubtedly misinterpret.





	Thoughts that Breathe, and Words that Burn

_Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. - Thomas Gray_  


"John, you _must_ see this."

It wasn't his words, but instead his be-gloved hand that pulled John, bodily, into George Hodgson's cabin, where the other lieutenant's face was split open with a wide, ridiculous grin.

"What on earth-"

George shushed him, slightly, and John instinctively glanced over his shoulder, though they were quite alone, and he knew such behavior was unbecoming of men of their status.

"You won't believe what I've found in a book Edward has lent me." The mirthful glint in his eyes was alight like a flame, even in the weak lamp light.

John furrowed his brow. As far as he was concerned, Edward was the paradigm of a perfect officer. "What are you getting at? Has he given you something...salacious? Inappropriate?" He thanked God that the man in question was above deck, dutifully overseeing magnetic and barometric observations.

George nearly doubled over in silent laughter, adamantly shaking his head. "No, no--it's quite tame, for the most part. I suppose that's what makes it comical."

John crossed his arms over his chest, and for once the gesture was not to abate the cold. "Out with it, man."

"It's a poem he's written. A _love_ poem."

John's mind came to a standstill. "H-he's given you a book with a love poem written into it? Edward Little?"

"Well," George intoned, plucking what must have been the volume in question from his shelf, "I did borrow it, though not exactly having...asked first."

_"George."_

"Edward has lent me all sorts of things, books included, I thought he assuredly wouldn't mind. Anyhow, God help the poor girl who serves as his muse--it's dreadfully written stuff."

A reprimand began to form on his tongue--technically, George has committed an act of theft, and his conduct in telling John about the thing was most ungentlemanly, to say the least. A decent man would instruct George to put it right back where he had found it. But that devious, wicked nature that lied somewhere in his mind or heart, that gave him ample reason to kneel by the side of his bunk at the end of each day, urged him forward instead.

He took one last glance at the closed cabin door. "Alright, show it to me."

In a moment's time they were both sat nearly shoulder to shoulder on George's berth with the piece of parchment held between them. It had been neatly folded into the back cover of a biography of Lord Nelson, of all things.

Eyes slowly scanning the entire length of the page, John kept peppering George with looks of incredulity.

"There's quite a lot one could say about this," he said, after a long stretch of silence, only interspersed with the groaning and creaking of the pack.

John didn't know much about poetry--if this abysmal collection of words on page could be considered such--he, generally speaking, kept to scripture and non-fiction. There, he found far less flowery language for him to undoubtedly misinterpret.

George nodded emphatically.

"Why does it cease to rhyme about half way through?"

"I'm not sure. He couldn't come up with any more rhyming words?" George ruminated.

"And this...extended metaphor, with the two horses in the apple orchard.."

"Rather goes off the rails at the end, I'm afraid."

"Yes." John studied it another moment. "George, you're far better with French than I am-"

"Ah, you mean this line, here? As far as I can tell, it's nonsensical. Unless, he's saying she looks like an umbrella?"

"Perhaps she serves _as_ an umbrella?" suggested john, floundering for meaning. "To shield the dark storms of his thoughts, or some drivel like that."

George snorted. "One would imagine, but we'll never know. The next line has been struck through, and rather violently from the look of it."

"I'm confused. Are her eyes gray, or blue, or green? It seems he cannot decide." He had all but ceased to hide the hilarity creeping into his voice. John knew he was an utterly wicked man. To imagine Edward, of all people, at his cramped writing desk, whiling away the hours on this...

"He does use the word 'emerald' rather liberally, too. Here, and here...and-"

"Didn't he once mention some woman?" asked John, suddenly. "A friend of his sister's, perhaps?"

"Miss such-and-such of this or that hall? Only to say he couldn't stand her, don't you remember?"

"Hm." Perhaps he had over-exaggerated the lady's faults, John privately mused. Sometimes the gentleman doth protest too much, to misquote the infamous bard. He was about to give voice to such a hypothesis, but George beat him to it with his own.

"Look at these verses: _Rigid boundaries of status and class/Stand between us like a pane of glass/Were I to possess some tool or token/To shatter them at last_."

"I rather liked that part, actually."

"Because it rhymed?"

"A poem _should_ rhyme, at least," John declared. He knew that much, he wasn't illiterate.

"Regardless of it's arguable lyrical merit, therein lies a very obvious clue." George steepled his fingers. "You've dined at the Little residence, haven't you, some years ago?"

"Yes, just the once. Why do you-"

"She must be some maid, a servant girl! See here, this line about filling a tea cup-- _...it overflows the confines of fine china/not unlike the ardent emotions I have harbored for far too long..._ et cetra, et cetra. I had first assumed it to be some colorful analogy. Do you remember, perhaps, Mrs. Little having some exceptionally handome, young lady's maid who served you tea?"

He scoffed. "If there were such a woman, I would hardly recall..."

"John, now is no time to be prudish. As a married man, I would certainly have no reason to cast my eyes about, but a bachelor, such as yourself-" here he trailed off.

" _Truly,_ George, I have no recollection of such a fair creature. Though, this gives us little doubt she most assuredly exists. Someplace."

The other lieutenant smiled ruefully. "And where ever she may be, she has silken, ebony hair...and that damned, wondrous freckle, ornamenting her left cheek."

"Were you a moneyed lady," John quoted, with an uncharacteristic flourish, "they would call it a beauty-mark, that kiss from an angel." 

They both broke out into silent hysterics.

 

Not long after that, John had regained his composure, and, then feeling rather sympathetic towards his dear friend who he had spent nearly half an hour mocking, urged Hodgson to covertly return the book and poem to their place, and to not speak of the matter again. Apart from a few covert, conspiratorial glances shared with George the next time they were in Edward's presence (who, thank Goodness, was blissfully unaware), John eventually put the entire event out of his mind for some time.

Edward Little's Parnassian attempts only flickered back to the forefront of his mind, one evening over dinner, with their fellow Erebus officers present, when the man himself had said something to serve as a catalyst. 

Commander Fitzjames had begun to quote some obscure romantic poet, a Lord Byron, who John had not heard of prior, and being unable to to finish the verse, Edward had supplied the last few words. Even Fitzjames quirked a brow.

"Truth be told, I don't have any great love for poetry, just some measure of familiarity through schooling and study. I greatly favor plain prose," Edward had said a moment afterword, dabbing innocently at the corner of his mouth with a serviette.

John felt the slightest jab of George's elbow into his side, unseen by any present, and kept his eyes steadily on the plate before him, lest he be overtaken by maniacal paroxysms in view of his superior officers. When he had steadied himself, he ventured a glance at where Edward sat across from him, the perfect visage of self-possession. Idly, Edward raised his glass to be filled by one of the stewards, and Crozier's man, Jopson, stepped forward, like clockwork, with pitcher in hand.

In the bright gleam of the gas lamps above, John could just make out a small mark, a freckle, just to the left of Jopson's nose. 

What had that ridiculous line been, again? About the beauty-mark?

Noticing this, on Jopson no less, made John realize how common, how pedestrian such a thing could be. He wouldn't have been surprised if that girl all those leagues away in England was actually a homely little thing, but good and kind-hearted all the same, that Edward's stagnant imagination had romanticized and constructed into some idol of nearly pagan worship. 

Regardless, he knew Edward to be a good man, and the type, most assuredly, to one day be a good and faithful husband. She was quite lucky to be the object of his honest, whole-hearted devotions, no matter how awkwardly expressed in words.

If Edward spared a fleeting, guarded look over his shoulder, and Jopson returned it with his own well-disguised tenderness, John was far too content in his assessments to pay them any heed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something very silly I wrote up pretty quickly, so there may be mistakes. Partially inspired by someone's headcanon they posted on tumblr about Little writing poetry but not being good/confident enough to seriously pursue it, and by bro-stoevsky's (I think that's who wrote them?) tumblr drabbles about Fitzjames 'anonymously' making his feelings for Crozier known through poetry :)


End file.
